Sanctuary
by Arcole
Summary: A young Artemis Entreri discovers a sanctuary in the chaos of Memnon, but how long can it last? Just a short piece exploring our boy AE's younger days, sort of a what makes him tick kind of piece.


Disclaimer: I don't own AE. Boy, I wish I did.

_NOTE: This takes place in canon (as far as I can tell) and is just my exploration of some of AE's childhood and suggests another piece of the puzzle of how he came to be the angry, interesting Artemis Entreri we all know and love. Part of me wishes he'd shown up in Ghost King. Most of me likes where I left him in Damage, Dawn, and Disaster instead. I'm just glad to be writing again. Sigh._

Twelve-year-old Artemis Entreri eased into the front door of the library cautiously with a darting glance behind him to be certain he had left his gang far behind. This place was a refuge--his refuge and he would not have illiterate thugs from the street following him inside.

His eyes rapidly adjusted to the relative darkness as he left the bright sun of Memnon's streets behind for the cool, lamplit stone corridors and bookstacks of the library of Selune.

Like a wraith, he slipped from shelf to shelf always out of sight of the priests and scholars who'd come to this place of learning. Quietly, he found his book, then his accustomed spot, an out of the way corner where he could read in peace—this week a book of legends of Calimshan, tales of the ancient genii who'd been the first to live in the deserts, whose magic had created the fabled city of Calimport. Artemis wondered what it would be like to live there inside its exotic oasis, among the palaces of the pashas.

He ran a finger just above the beautifully inked illustration on the page before him, careful not to touch the page itself, unwilling to profane its artistry with his less than clean fingertips.

That had been Brother Similan's first and only rule: Do not dirty the books.

Artemis recalled his first meeting with the young monk. He'd been six years old. As a child of the streets, he'd seen the large beautiful library building in the distance but had never been close to it, keeping close to the home he shared with his mother Shanali and father Belrigger in the poorest section of town.

Sometimes Belrigger brought home company, men who wanted to visit with them, and Artemis would be sent outside to play with a kiss on the cheek from his beautiful mother or a slap to the back of the head from Belrigger. Recently, though, he'd brought home a visitor who had not left. Instead, Tosso-posh had moved into Artemis's room.

The thoughts alone of the ragged man were enough to bring bile up into Artemis's throat. At six he'd learned how to hide, how to stifle his cries so that Belrigger would not hear, how to keep Shanali from knowing what went on in the dark. If he told her, Tosso-posh would hurt her. And considering just how thoroughly "Uncle Tosso" knew how to cause hurt, he believed the man's threats and kept quiet.

But keeping quiet didn't mean sticking around, and Artemis began to roam the streets early in search of safe havens from Tosso's attentions and Belrigger's abuse, havens where the gangs of street toughs didn't go. He was on the run from just such a gang when he found himself slipping inside the door of the library.

From the first brush of his bare foot against the carpeted floor of the entry vestibule, six-year-old Artemis had known he was not in a place where he belonged. The air did not smell of unwashed bodies and spoiled meat. Heat from the unrelenting Memnon sun did not bake the stone floor. Noises of braying animals and shouting merchants did not ring in his ears.

This place was quiet and cool and the only smells were of leather and paper and scented wax. The gang of street urchins did indeed chase him to the door, but stopped short of entry.

"He's gone in to the priests," one snarled, then spat on the marble steps of the building.

"Then let him go. They'll either throw him out with the rest of the garbage or keep him for themselves," another replied with a nasty laugh. "Some of those Selune worshipers like boys too."

The rest laughed along, then went searching for easier prey, leaving the boy Artemis inside the strange building.

He considered slipping out again now that the bigger boys were gone, but something drew him further in. He walked boldly into the large room before him, his eyes wide open at the shelves and shelves of books that stood around the room. Colorful tapestries decorated the walls, each depicting various legends, monsters, or events in Faerunian history. Statues stood here and there as well, the primary being a white marble depiction of the moon goddess Selune in all her glory.

He could not read the inscription on the base, but knew the symbols of Memnon's goddess well from his frequent visits with his mother to the temple for worship. She'd once taken him in for a blessing from the Divine Voice Gositek himself, but Artemis had been less than impressed. The man had given him a casual glance, said a few words, and went on to the next worshiper. His mother had seemed disappointed for some reason. Artemis had been just as glad to leave.

Further into the room was a display case of weaponry which drew Artemis's attention completely. He walked straight up to the glass, daring to press his fingertip against it just above a beautifully crafted sword. Its blade was curved and engraved with graceful, flowing writing.

"That is an elven blade," came a voice from behind him.

"What does it say on it?" Artemis asked curiously, not even looking around to see who had caught him.

"It says, 'Borne by one who was born it to bear,'" the voice replied.

"What does that mean?" the boy asked.

"It means the sword was passed down in the family, I suppose," the voice answered. This time Artemis turned around to look at him. It was a young monk in the robes of Selune, but unlike the priests of the temple, this one was smiling. "How did you get in here, young man?"

"Through the front door," Artemis replied honestly. "What is this place?"

And from there began a relationship of master and pupil. As often as Artemis could get away, he came to the library where Brother Similan taught him: first to respect the books, then to read them. Artemis had been a sponge, soaking up all he could learn, and Brother Similan had encouraged his explorations and revealed to him a world beyond Memnon's poverty-stricken streets.

Now, at twelve, Artemis had been a student, albeit an inconsistent one, of the priest of Selune for several years. At times Brother Similan would ask him questions about his home, about his family, especially if Artemis had been absent from the library for several days. Once, he'd pressed him hard when Artemis had come in bearing the marks of one of Belrigger's drunken tirades.

But the boy would not tell him, could not tell him about his home. He could not speak of the way Belrigger beat him, of his mother's mental and physical decline, of Tosso-posh's attentions. In the library, that part of his life simply went away. He would not bring it in with him.

Life on the streets required compromise, however. Though he would not have harmed one of Selune's books for a thousand pieces of gold, he would and did steal anything on the outside that was not nailed down—and a few things that were—in order to feed himself and his mother.

Shanali had become very tired lately. Her looks had gone haggard and sallow. Her eyes sunk into her face, shadowed by dark rings. Her teeth had grown snaggled and decayed. When she touched his cheek, he could feel the cold in her fingertips. He was afraid for her.

Sometimes priests had prayers of healing, he knew. Shanali had gone to the temple a number of times to ask for help from them to fight the wasting disease that had her. But the priests no longer called her into the temple for private worship. She reached out to them, but they looked past her. Artemis had caught the eye of one priest as it passed over his sick mother and had seen only revulsion.

He resolved to ask Brother Similan. Brother Similan was different. He had been Artemis's teacher, had given him shelter from the streets. Surely Brother Similan would help his mother now.

He slipped quietly down the hallways toward the little room Brother Similan used as a study. The other priests had grown used to the occasional appearance of the street urchin and as long as he didn't bother them, they were content to let him pass with a disdainful look. Today, however, their looks were curious.

He reached the study door and looked inside. Usually, the priest was alone, but this time, there was another priest in the room with him, a dark-haired, handsome man, whose robes were ornate and richly appointed. Artemis recognized him at once. The Exalted Voice Yinochek.

At Artemis's appearance in the doorway, Brother Similan looked at him and said nervously, "This is the boy himself. Come in, Artemis. Come in and meet the Exalted Voice Yinochek, high priest of the Temple of Selune and assistant to the Principal Cleric and Divine Voice himself."

Artemis stepped into the room, gaging the distance between him and the priest carefully, as if he feared an attack. The priest looked at him, his gray eyes examining the boy from head to foot. Artemis looked back at him just as steadily, the intent gaze in his own gray eyes bordering on disrespect.

"Artemis, remember your place," Similan whispered anxiously and the boy made a deferential bow, his eyes never leaving those of the Divine Voice. "He is a good student, Devout Yinochek, very bright and driven to succeed. He would be an asset to the order, I assure you."

"And why should our order go out into the streets to seek priests when the brightest young men of Memnon, young men of good birth and standing, wait years to gain entry as acolytes?" Yinochek replied in a scathing voice. "I see no reason to look to the gutter for servants of Selune."

Brother Similan cleared his throat nervously. "I thought perhaps this boy would be different. If you would but take a closer look at him, sir." The young priest looked back and forth between the older man and the boy before him. "This boy should have a place here with you. If nothing else, due to his intelligence and his talents."

The Exalted Voice Yinochek tore his attention away from those gray eyes so very like his own to pierce Similan with a look angry enough to melt glass. "Just what are you insinuating, Brother Similan? That I owe anything to this streetrat?" Then he looked back at Artemis. "Get him out of my sight."

And with an economical rush of movement, a well-armored priest from the shadows of the room stepped forward to hustle a surprised young Artemis out of the library with a strong grip to his elbow.

The Calishite sun was bright outside as the door of the library swung shut behind him, a solid finality in the sound of the wood against the doorframe.

Three days later, when he finally freed himself of Belrigger's chores long enough to return, Brother Similan met him at the door. "I am truly sorry, Artemis," was all the priest would say. "He's forbidden it. You may not return."

Artemis tried to ask Brother Similan about his mother. But the priest would not listen. He just kept shaking his head and saying, "I am sorry, Artemis. I am forbidden to speak to you. Do not come back. For both our sakes. I am truly sorry."

The door was once again shut against him. As he walked home deep in thought, three young men stepped up out of an alley to walk beside him. "It's Shanali's little Artemis," one said sweetly. "What brings you out into the streets, little Artemis?"

"Tosso-posh's little Artemis you mean," another said, giving Artemis a slap on the back of the head. "Got any money, kid?"

"You know this one don't have money," the third stated with a laugh. "Shanali can't make any no more. Nobody in their right mind's going to pay for someone with her kind of pox."

Artemis considered attacking them, considered how much bigger they were, considered how outnumbered he was. Then he leaped at the third one.

Once at home, he was going to change out of his torn clothing and wash the blood off his lip and nose. But instead he was met outside by a smirking Belrigger and a weary-looking Shanali. Tosso-posh kissed his fingertips in Artemis's direction as a man wearing the robes of a merchant approached him.

The man looked him over, turning him around, poking him in the arm and ribs with one finger. Then he slapped him on the rump. "He'll do," the merchant stated with a wink in Tosso's direction. "He'll do fine." Then he passed a bag of coins to Shanali, who would not meet her son's eyes.

"Shanali?" Artemis asked as the merchant pushed him toward a nearby wagon. "What's happening?"

"The Exalted Voice has promised me, Artemis," she whispered hoarsely, her fingers anxiously twisting the leather of the bag. "Only a few hundred more, he said. I am so sorry. I wish there was another way."

"I can't believe you are stupid enough to go back to the priests," Belrigger drawled at her, and she flinched at his voice. "You'd be better off to spend that on a good meal."

"A good last meal," Tosso snickered. The merchant's grip on Artemis's arm was painful as he shoved him into the seat of the wagon. Belrigger walked up and tossed the boy a sack. It only took a moment for Artemis to realize that everything he could call his own was packed inside it. He was leaving. The wagon began to pull away.

Artemis thought to call out to his mother once more, to ask her what was happening, where he was going, when he would see her again. He looked back into her face for the last time, and the image was burned into his memory--Shanali, no longer beautiful, beaten down by life and by Belrigger, by illness and by poverty. She was no longer beautiful to anyone but him. He was her son. He loved her. Then she turned away from him.

Beside him the merchant clucked to the horses, then slid an appreciative gaze over the boy's body. He gave a playful little pull at his torn shirt. "Tosso-posh said you were a fiesty one," the man commented. "But you're mine now, boy. You remember your place and we'll get along just fine."

Artemis looked back once more, but Shanali was no longer there. He knew where she'd gone. She'd gone to the priests. The turrets of the temple were just visible on the horizon, and the distant voice of the priest began to carry in the air as he intoned the opening notes of prayer to Selune. Overhead the moon shimmered white in the blue of the afternoon sky. It floated above them, serene and unaware of the world below it.

There at the temple of the moon, a priest was taking his mother's money with distaste. He was taking her money and dismissing her just like Similan had dismissed him. The priests wouldn't help her. He knew what they were like. All their talk of devotion was just that—talk. At that moment, something inside Artemis Entreri turned to steel, steel as hard and sharp as an elven blade.

"I know my place," Artemis stated coldly as he slid away from the merchant's questing fingers. And Memnon grew distant behind him, as distant as the unreachable moon.


End file.
